


"Le Mur"

by ShinobiCyrus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, F/F, Gen, Graffiti, Graffiti Tracer, Implied Widowtracer, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Overwatch AU, Short One Shot, one of my favorite OW skins for her, street art, why yes it's perfectly normal to court posh ladies with misdemeanor vandalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinobiCyrus/pseuds/ShinobiCyrus
Summary: Amélie had to remind herself when she traveled to not compare the places she visited with Paris. It was hard to be charitable when she had to learn the choreography for her latest show all while trying to figure out the jumbled mess of London's streets.And the graffiti? The graffiti was an eyesore.





	"Le Mur"

**Author's Note:**

> **A short little piece I did after being inspired by Tumblr Artist[Radsity](http://radsity.tumblr.com)'s piece of [graffiti!Tracer](http://radsity.tumblr.com/post/163652030923) putting up a spider tag for a certain someone. Go check them out!**

Amélie had to remind herself when she traveled to not compare the places she visited with Paris. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. 

Getting lost for the umpteenth time in the tangled streets of London, she was feeling less than charitable. Paris had gotten their act together and rebuilt the city into an orderly grid. One wrong turn in London and Amélie was hopelessly lost in narrow, winding streets. Even following directions on her phone felt like going deeper into the labyrinth.

She wasn’t exactly sure when the road had transitioned from asphalt to cobblestone. The buildings pressed claustrophobically close like an ambitious alleyway. It was scarcely wide enough for anything larger than a compact to drive through. Honestly, this whole city was positively _medieval_. 

Somehow in a city of millions she’d found herself alone. Her heels clicked rhythmically on old, crooked stone, echoing down the quiet street. The phone insisted a route forward- Amélie saw the time and swore. She quickened her pace as fast as her designer shoes would allow, going past full rubbish bins waiting for pickup. 

On one wall, next to an outdated advertisement, a signature drawn from sharp lines in garish orange, trails sliding down where the paint had dripped. 

 _'TRACER'_ the masterpiece proclaimed.  Amélie snorted. Even the graffiti was better in Paris.

She arrived an hour late for rehearsal. Thankfully, the embarrassment was tempered by not being the only one to get lost. The members of their school that were local had a little laugh about it, which Amélie tried not to take personally, since a few of the more helpful ones offered directions after they were done.

Her phone had actually been not entirely wrong. According to one of the stagehands, that empty little cobbestone street was quite the shortcut. She rose earlier the next morning- just in case the city tried to swallow her up again.

She’d forgotten entirely about the graffiti. It had been taken down overnight, but replaced by a small fighter-jet, dropping paint spray cans instead of what warplanes usually dropped on people.

 _Bombs Away!_ it said. Amélie didn’t slow as she passed it. At least it was an improvement from the last eyesore.

* * *

That first day would be the only one that Amélie was ever late. After rehearsals she didn’t head straight home. Going off her route, she exploring the little avenues, dead ends, and side streets around her flat. On her days off she put on workout clothes, picked a random direction and jogged while she listened to their choreography music on her phone. 

It was like the city had issued a challenge to her, one that Amélie was determined to beat. Gérard always said she was stubborn. 

_I never said it was a bad thing, mon coeur._

After three weeks, getting lost anywhere between her flat and the studio took deliberate effort. The layout of the streets, winding, haphazard patterns on a map, started having a certain organic flow to it. Sometimes during practice she’d come to points in a song and think of the corner coffee shop she passed on her jog, or the little graffiti murals on that wall in her neighborhood: a girl with her open heart replaced with a clock, or a cute jet fighters ‘pew-pew’ing at the city’s omnipresent CCTV cameras. 

She was starting to recognize the artist. Their style was very distinctive; Amélie spotted more of their handiwork in other places, besides that wall on the cobblestone street that seemed to be their favorite. Nothing stayed up for very long, a few days at most. Maybe London was more diligent about graffiti removal. 

The choreography was starting to intersect with her walks. Queues in the music aligning with certain landmarks. London was starting to grow on her, all the twists and turns like steps in a routine. Assemblés at the corner, glissade when you reach the streetlight. Wait, walk signal, _en avant_.

Listening to music for blocks instead of paying attention, she should have known it was bound to happen eventually. Something knocked hard into Amélie’s shoulder. She stumbled after a step, but regained her balance- of course. 

“Oops! Sorry ‘bout that, luv!”

Amélie swore in unflattering French. “Why don’t you watch where-”

She was a slip of a girl- skinny leggings stained with paint, swallowed up in a bulky blue hoody in slightly better condition. Her hood was up, and covering her face was a painter’s respirator. A pair of goggles coloured her eyes a familiar shade of orange. Garish. 

Amélie frowned, taken aback. “What-”

“Over there! Halt!” A voice shouted behind Amélie. 

“Oh crap,” The hoodie-girl said, muffled by her mask. “Sorry again, gotta run!”

She ran past Amélie, but not down the street. Taking a running hop onto a rubbish bin, the girl grabbed the top of a chain-link fence and vaulted clear over into the slim alley between two houses. 

Two policemen, their footsteps and breathing awkward and heavy, ran panting to the fence while the girl smoothly scurried up the wall, then hung off a window’s security bars one-handed. 

“What’sa matter bobbies? Skip your cardio?”

“Cheeky little squirrel.” One of the officers panted, head between his knees. 

“You’re only making it worse for yourself, Tracer,” The other officer said, skinny where his partner was more rotund, like a classic British comedy pair. “We’re gonna catch you eventually.”

"No chance of _that_ happening anytime soon, I think," spotting Amélie behind the officers, she winked from behind her goggles. "Cheers!" 

The police impotently watched her clamber the rest of the way up, disappearing when she made it over the lip of the roof. 

“Call it in,” the bigger one snarled at his partner, eyeing the rooftops. Neither of them paid Amélie any mind- which worked just fine for her. 

Further down the road, at the same spot Amélie had first seen that signature in ugly orange, a new mural had taken its place. A cartoonish tableau of a small figure in a blue hoddie running away from two old-fashioned constables waving billy clubs, completely ignoring the man in a business suit behind them carrying off a bag of money over his shoulder like a bank robber.

Amélie was almost surprised by the little laugh escaped her. She looked up and down the street like she’d been caught doing something uncouth; but no, even the police had moved on. The street and rooftops were empty. 

* * *

It rained a lot in London. One of Amélie’s first purchases was a purple umbrella and proper rainboots. She didn’t care for it; the boots made it impossible to practice her steps while she waited for the light to change, and even with the umbrella she kept her phone and headphones in her dry purse. It made her walks quiet, cold, and dreary- and it being London, it happened often. 

The hiss of a straw being sipped behind her. “What'cha lookin’ at?”

It wasn’t one of her usual spots, but Amélie knew it was one of hers. Without meaning to she’d stopped to look. Maybe even take a photo of it with her phone. She’d been doing that, lately. Even started showing the local dancers and stangehands before rehearsal.

“It’s running.”  Amélie said, not looking at her. On the wall beneath an overhang, a young girl reached for something just past its shelter. The haunted, despairing anguish on her face as the rainwater melted her hands and arms kept Amélie transfixed.

“I usually use temp paint,” the girl, Tracer, said. “Safe on the environment, don’t harm nothin’. Just sticks around until London decides it doesn’t like it anymore.”

Amélie finally turned away from the piece to look at her. Still the hoody, but wearing torn, faded jeans. The goggles hung around her neck, a phantom tanline around her face, framing a cluster of freckles. She slurped at her drink again. Amélie recognized the logo from the cafe she went to sometimes for breakfast. 

“I thought street artists preferred their…art to be as permanent as possible.”

Tracer shrugged, shoulders soaked. “Eh, I like that it’s temporary. The transience of art and whatnot. Makes it feel more special, knowing it won’t be there forever.” She grinned. “’sides, I post pictures of them on my blog.”

Amélie rolled her eyes. For a second there, she almost sounded like a _real_ artist. Almost. 

“So what’dya think?” She nodded at the mural. 

“It’s certainly not the Louvre.” Amélie said coolly. 

“Ouch. Talk about stiff competition.”

“The stiffest.” She pulled down her sleeve to check her watch. Damn, she was going to be late at this rate. “I need to go. _Bonne journée_.”

Tracer stepped aside readily enough for her, but then started matching pace with Amélie, avoiding the canopy of her umbrella. “I’ve seen you around the neighborhood once or twice. Are you new?”

“Last month. It’s only temporary for my job.”

“Ooh, and what job might that be? I bet it’s something posh, like fashion or design. S’gotta be a pain to keep that ink hidden- too many places get their knickers in a twist about that kind of stuff.” 

Amélie involuntarily glanced back in askance. “What?”

She lifted right her arm. “Your tattoo.”

Amélie had to juggle to hold up her umbrella and pull her sleeve snugly back over her wrist. Too late, of course. The girl had already seen.

It had been a foolish, wine-fueled impulse that had almost cost her a spot on _Coppélia_. Some misplaced desire to memorialize her mother and embrace an old phobia. 

She’d been terrified of spiders since she was a little girl. Everything about them was _wrong._ Too many eyes, too many legs. The way they skittered quickly across a room, or the slow stalk as it hunted, a jumble of limbs moving with an unnatural coordination. Just the sight of cobwebs made her shudder with prickling goosebumps. Like she could feel them _on her_. 

Costume and makeup always complained about having to cover it during shows. Amélie always intended but never got around to just removing it, once and for all. 

Not entirely dense, Tracer (such a foolish, childish little street-name!) hurried to placate her. “Oh, sorry I didn’t mean to- It’s real nice, though! Don’t have one myself, if you can believe it. I guess I’m so busy paintin’ the world I never got around to the easiest canvas. “ She laughed at that. The rich, easy sound of it told  Amélie she laughed loudly and often. 

“What’s the whole thing say?” Tracer craned her head as if to peek down the sleeve. 

 _There’s nothing to be afraid of,_ mother said. _Things will get better, Amélie. All you have to do is wait out the night._

 _“‘Araignée du Soir.’”_ Amélie replied thoughtlessly, turning her arm away.

“What’s that?”

“It’s French.”

She rolled her yes. “Well of course I know it’s French. I was asking what it _means._ ”

Amélie stopped at the intersection and shot the girl an impatient look. “Google it.”

At least she didn’t keep following when the pedestrian signal turned on. 

“Alright, maybe I will!” She yelled across the street, then stuck her tongue out like a child.

Amélie snorted. _ridicule fille._

* * *

Rehearsals started earlier and went on later into the night. Opening night was creeping towards them with momentum, looming over the whole studio, the whole city. 

The rain intensified. Amélie’s commutes were clipped and hurried, huddled under an umbrella without the benefit of any sun or songs. The walls she passed where wet and bare.

She lived and breathed the music. Even at home, she would put the tracks on repeat. Practiced her steps around her leaky apartment, while she picked up, did dishes; wrapped the performance herself around until she was entangled and helpless to it. 

More than just her career was riding on this. It had been years since she was a struggling dance student, before she fell in love and married. Now she was alone again, and needed to support herself. She wasn’t young anymore, and constantly surrounded with rival talent, fresh but not as experienced. 

At home she danced with the curtains drawn, and felt the winding, chaotic, twisted turns down London’s street right outside. Corner assemblés, glissade at the streetlight. Wait for the signal,  _en avant_.

She spun lightly in her living room in time with the music, next was the _arabesque,_  one leg raised straight back, her right arm reaching up. The light from outside painted phantom raindrops on her forearm, sliding down the webs of her tattoo. 

_Araignée du Soir_

* * *

 

Opening night was like a stormbreak. Being swept up in the hurried, final preparations. Dressing room, lights, choreography, an understudy pulled in last minute. Amélie balanced herself in the middle of it, closed her eyes, heard the music, and danced a pattern-step like a London streetmap on-stage.

Amateur critics updated their blogs in the lobby. Amélie tided herself over with them until the newspapers printed proper articles in the morning. All the nitpicking one came to expect from cosmopolitan arts pieces, but still the consensus of a show worthy of accolades.

Next morning she walked to the studio at the usual time, even though they’d all celebrated late. There was already talk of an extension, booking at least a few more weeks of shows. Amélie would have to adjust her temporary lease. Or maybe it was time to find a new place, she hadn’t yet decided.

Her walk home was early- a brief reprieve before they had to come in for tomorrow night’s show. She took the same route, the music from the stage still in her head, making her feel lighter.

The rain had stopped that morning. Amélie stepped over puddles that looked impossibly deep, rippling with the seismic motions of the streets.

It had rained for so long, she almost walked right past the wall. 

The dark silhouette of a spider, tethered on a thread. Two of its long, spindly legs were poised like knitting needles, wrapping up a helpless candy-red heart in its web.

A police radio crackled. The skinny officer from before turned it down. His partner had a thick hand wrapped around Tracer’s arm, which seemed unnecessary, considering the handcuffs.

“Move along,” The big officer sniffled. 

Tracer blushed, shuffling on her feet, wincing when the grip on her arm tightened in warning. “Oh. Uh…hiya.” The handcuffs jangled when she waved. “Been a while. So…whaddya think?”

Amélie looked back at the mural, then looked back at Tracer. “Actually,” she smirked. “I hate spiders.”

Tracer gaped at her, caught completely by surprise, then burst out laughing, like Amélie thought she would. Loud and giggling, ringing up and down the cobblestone street.

“Hey. Fancy grabbing a cuppa after I make bail?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Like I said, very short. Just a little something I put together in an afternoon that probably involved too much research into ballet, street art, and French phrases. Thank you for reading, Comments are always appreciated!**


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